


move on

by anarchywrites



Category: my own stuff
Genre: Other, otherwise its just...me writing., slight warning for mentions of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 11:32:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19250356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchywrites/pseuds/anarchywrites
Summary: oc drabble





	move on

**Author's Note:**

> something i wrote up at 1:30 am, thinking too long and too hard about my oc, and listening to regina spektor

A thousand years could have passed and Avery Wyatt would live through his trauma like it had happened an hour ago.

He knew that by now, he should’ve let it go. He could’ve moved on, been happy, been someone other than the person he doesn’t recognize in the mirror. If only life was so forgiving- no. If only he was so forgiving to himself.

It had been a good fifteen years since he had escaped, and yet he clung onto each memory of fear and pain as if it was a child. He was almost protective of his trauma; it left him wondering if he really did deserve to get better. He wouldn’t let himself, that much was evident. Avery hated himself more than anything in the world; more than those who had wronged him, more than stupid things like bedhead and more than serious things like the lung cancer that was looming at his doorstep. He took a deep drag of his cigarette at that last thought, out of spite.

God, these damn things. He hated them too. Zone out far enough and he’d come back to the cigarette smoked down to the butt in one, long smoke. It always freaked out his friends.

_Everything you do freaks them out. Your friends-_

Ah, shit, his friends. They were in the house. He was out here for a smoke break. He’d argued with Ein about something he can’t even recall right now; he didn’t even remember why he was outside in the first place, why would he remember whatever sordid words the two of them had exchanged just moments ago? What a ridiculous request to ask of the pile of raw meat he called a brain.

_I made you like this, Wy-_

 He began walking. It is a directionless motion; his legs move on impulse, and he doesn’t have the energy to complain about it. Perhaps if he keeps walking, he’ll run into a purpose, but for now the purpose is to shut up his pounding head. It’s not working, though. It really isn’t; in fact, it’s getting worse. He just wants-

_What? What do you want, Avery? What is it your pathetic excuse for a person wants? To get better? Is that it? Truly inspiring; you know you won’t, and yet you push on like it’s a thing to do. Why? What hope remains for a shoddy washed-up moron, pushing 30 and pulling strings to stay relevant? Do you realize what you’re doing hurts not only you, but the ones who love you?_

He swallowed past a lump in his throat as his own mind belittled him. Avery waited until he was a great distance away from the origin of Ein’s backyard; if anyone saw him like this, he’d kill himself without a moment’s hesitation.

_Do it, pussy._

It was quiet enough here, though, and with a breath through his nose, Avery leaned his head against a tree. His head swiveled against the bark, allowing him to squint up at the sun. Augh, he hated it, taunting him with the warmth he could feel on his skin, but scarcely in his heart. Avery stared at it, harder. He pretended that it was the reason tears found themselves on his face.

_Deflect, you moron. That’s all you do. You really wanna delude yourself into thinking you’re crying ‘cause you’re doing what three year olds know not to do?_

“Shut up,” He sobbed out to the silent air, “As if you know what is right for me. I don’t even know what is right for me.”

_At least I’m trying. What are **you** doing?_

 Avery truly thought he was getting better, but he was wrong. He was so wrong, and foolish for even once thinking differently. The world doesn’t get better for people like him, who refuse to change. By now he should’ve realized it, by now he should have accepted it. And yet, Avery Wyatt stands here, shaking, alone, with a lit cigarette poised between two fingers, and he cries. And it’s pathetic, and it’s raw, and he feels like the smallest person in the world, while tears roll off his cheeks and patter against the grass at his feet.

This was a non-issue.

_You’re crying, alone, at three in the afternoon. This is a full issue. Take care of it._

Avery suddenly straightened up.

_Now move on, you pussy. Wipe your face. You’re not gong home to your fucking girlfriend looking like you popped off of a reality TV show._

He rubbed at his face, sniffing and huffing.

“It still hurts,” He tells himself.

_It always will. Move on._

Move on.

_Move on._


End file.
